


The Darkness, the Dawn, the Day

by vetiverite



Series: Grand Pas de Deux [4]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballet AU, Dancer Fíli, First Love, Grand Pas de Deuxniverse, Historical AU, Hurt/Comfort, Imperial Russian AU, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Orphan Fíli, Unrelated Fíli and Kíli, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24781825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite
Summary: Prequel to "The Letters of Kyril Gavrilovich and Filipp Koivu"; they pick up where this story ends.  A look at Filipp's life before Kyril; what shaped him and why he needs love.  Be warned of implied acts of abuse and rape, but they are part of Filipp's history and not gratuitous.
Relationships: Fíli & Kíli (Tolkien), Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien)
Series: Grand Pas de Deux [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646743
Comments: 12
Kudos: 20





	The Darkness, the Dawn, the Day

Hell, some say, is a pit of flame. For orphans, it’s a burial at sea. 

You arrive, small and alone, bearing nothing of your old life except the rags on your back. _Don’t be frightened, Filipp,_ the strangers say. _We only want to measure you._

Out comes the tailor’s tape. They turn you this way and that; one calls out numbers while the other records them in a book. Then – sharp metal pins bristling between pressed lips – they sew you into your shroud. It must fit well, for it will be yours all your life.

You keep perfectly quiet as they slide you under the waves. Who wants a noisy, sniveling child? Delighted with you, the strangers clap their hands.

 _How well-behaved you are, Fílipp!_ they say. _What a good, brave boy!_

The ocean floor is not as quiet as one would think. Angry voices shout commands; slaps and pinches speak just as loud. They take your bewilderment for dumb insolence, but you truly don’t speak their language. No matter. Your old tongue fades, and a new one muscles in. Once you understand it, you obey quickly and without question. Soon, it’s what you’re known for.

Sometimes a bright light flares in the blackness, revealing memories half-buried in the silt. Scenes fade in and out like painted backdrops flying out of sight. You call and wave to Mama and Papa, but they don’t notice. Then the lights dim, and you’re no wiser than before.

You’re not alone in the darkness, though. Veikko is there, hidden in your heart.

Papa insisted you’d been too young when Veikko died to remember him, but who forgets their twin? You see his face every time you look in the mirror. You feel him in your own soul. Reach out, and his mute warm presence – completely familiar, completely sympathetic – comes swiftly to your side.

No one knows he exists but you. You love him with a love so great, to lose him would break you— so of course, you lose him. What else?

It’s not your fault. Children have to sleep sometime, and that’s when the ogres come. They know exactly where to find you, and they leave you there, too— pulled to shivering, terrified pieces. One night is all it takes. 

In the morning, Veikko is gone and you’re forever alone.

Years pass. You work hard, and though you get reasonably free of the shroud, the darkness of the icy deep stays with you. After so many years, it has soaked into your soul like ink on linen, like a bruise on skin. _Fílipp Akselovich is touched by frost._ That’s what they say of you. You do nothing, nothing to change their opinion.

And since there’s nothing of Veikko to bury, you push him from your mind.

__________________

Lyuban is your friend. He’s a year younger but four inches taller than you, perfect for hiding behind. You sit together at recess, and even though he only understands two out of ten words you speak, when you tell him about Mama and Papa he reaches for your hand. 

What do you remember? 

Mama: soft, warm _(too warm; why?)_ and smelling of milk and coppery blood. 

Veikko: sweet but fleeting.

Papa: full of love but falling apart.

After Mama and Veikko went to heaven, he turned into a great storm, always raging. As if to demonstrate the brokenness of his heart, he bellowed and smashed things while you – his sole witness – hid under the bed. Airborne splinters of glass or dustballs and mouse scat: your choice.

One night, the hurricane fell silent. 

_Papa_ , you whispered in the chill of dawn, shaking his rigid shoulder. _Papa. Papa_. 

Attracted by your crying, a neighbor lady pried open the door. More ladies came and led you gently away from the body on the floor. They placed bread and milk before you and packed your bags while you ate. To their credit, they came down to the street to wave you goodbye, standing all in a row like professional mourners.

 _I’m sorry about your folks,_ Lyuban says. He’s not sorry about his own, for they’re still alive. After eight chicks in their nest, a ninth gaping mouth proved one too many to fill, so they pushed him out. But it’s all right— he wants them no more now than they wanted him then. They’re not allowed to change their minds, though he fantasizes that they will. He’s built whole daydreams around their pleas for forgiveness, which he has every intention of throwing right back in their faces.

 _If they show up here expecting to take me home,_ he says, _I’ll fight them._

 _I’ll fight them, too,_ you whisper—not because it’s a secret, but because you won’t learn to speak in a normal tone of voice for at least another three years.

In the end, it’s not Lyuban’s fickle parents who take him. One day at recess he lands wrong on one foot and there’s a terrible sound, like the crack of ice on the Neva in spring. He falls screaming; they carry him off on a stretcher, and that’s the last of Lyuban for you.

Over time, you come to believe he died of his injury. If he’d lived, wouldn’t he have come back?

In your twenty-first year, you run into him on the Egyptian Bridge. You walked there from the Mariinsky, hoping to give your own dark thoughts the slip somewhere along the south bank of the Fontanka Canal. Halfway across, he’s loping toward you, headed north as you head south. Recognizing him instantly, your heart bangs painfully in your chest.

His memory requires some jogging as to who you are. His break; your ache.

 _Oh, I still dance!_ he says when you ask, clapping your back with a hearty laugh. _Bones heal, after all! I perform Cossack dances with my brothers— yes, I found them again, isn’t that something? We work the officers’ clubs. We’ve got fancy costumes, an orchestra and everything. Sure, I’m no_ danseur noble, _but at least I don’t have to listen to Ivanov’s bullshit. And you?_

You avoid that route for many months afterward.

__________________

Lyuban leaves; Fedya arrives— an irritant usurping the place of a pearl. At first, your still-grieving soul refuses him admittance. He spends two years prying you open, sliding the knife-edge of his wit along your defenses until you give up with a groan and let him in.

At eight no less than at eighteen or eighty, Fedya is an incorrigible wag. His is a mouth that refuses to shut. He’s the one who teaches you to open yours, to raise your voice— not by much, but enough to ask to use the lavatory before you wet your pants. 

Fedya doesn’t want to hear about your family. He won’t hold your hand as Lyuban did, but he likes you. After awhile, you like him back.

__________________

Monsieur is more than your teacher; he is father, protector, savior, lord. It was he who plucked you from the ogres’ grasp and brought you to the Academy.

 _I carried you home under my arm like a puppy,_ he says. _You’ve followed me around like one ever since._

For the first two years, this was literal truth. Too young for any kind of study, you sat at Monsieur’s feet and watched his pupils toil at the barre while he played his violin. When it was time to go, you fisted the hem of his coat tight in your little hand, loath to be parted from him. 

_Midiya_ , he still calls you indulgently. Little mussel, clinging fast.

At first he would not let you dance, but there came a day (seemingly ordained by the stars) when they dressed you in short pants and a smock and brought you before Dr. Semyonov. He listened to your heart, measured and weighed you, and worked your limbs like those of a doll. _A bit small for his age, but well-formed and flexible,_ he said. Monsieur promptly had you stand straight, point your toes, lift your arms like wings, walk in a circle. You must have done it right, for the next day you joined the line of dancing boys.

 _You’re going to learn, dear children,_ said Monsieur. _Ribs lifted, shoulders down, chin up, heels together, toes turned out, but not too far! Make your arms into a circle like so, as if you were holding a great big melon in front of your belly. Now bend your knees… carefully, gently, not too deep… and back up. Marvelous! Again!_

His approval is a shiny gold coin. The beggar with hand outstretched is you.

__________________

_Demi-pliés_ in first and second, running on tiptoe.

_(Again!)_

_Port de bras, retirés, battements tendus à la seconde, grands battements_ on both sides, rises, quarter turns, _sauté_ and _echappé sauté_ from first, step _temps levé, arabesque_ in third, sideways galop and polka.

_(Again!)_

Eight points, five positions, arms _en bas, en avant, en haut,_ _demi-pliés_ in first, second, and third, _battements tendus en croix_ from first position, _grands pliés, battements à la quatrième devant et à la seconde, ronds de jambe à terre, adage, sauté, echappés relevés, port de bras, battements tendu_ with transfer of weight to second, _retirés passé_ , third _arabesque_ , first _pirouette_ , spotting, _tour en l’air, changement, pas de chat, petits jetés devant et derrière, sautés in first,_ galops forward and to each side.

_(Again!)_

_Battements tendus, battements dégagés_ from first, _fouetté_ taken _à terre_ into _arabesque, developpé_ with _temps lié, relevé_ with _bourrée_ both sides, _assemblé dessus et dessous, soutenu et de suite, balancé, attitude, chassée en avant, jeté, posé coupé, posé en avant, enchainements; croise devant, derrier, écarte. Etendre, relever. Releve pirouette en dehors. Glissande, sissonne en avant fermee soutenu, soutenu turn en dedans, battement degages en piques, battements frapp_ _é_ _s, deux grands rond de jamb_ _é_ _en l’air avec arabesque, assembl_ _é_ _elanc_ _é_ _dessus, demi-contretemps, entrechat royale, pos_ _é_ _tour, sissonne fermé dessus, sissonne fermé de côte d_ _é_ _vant, entrechats troix, quatre, six,_ _tours_ _chaînés déboulés…_

_(Again!)_

All this you memorize, by rote and by heart. But you still cannot read.

There’s two alphabets, one block-shaped, one squiggly. They don’t look alike, but they mean the same thing, and you’re supposed to tell what’s what at a single glance. The letters spitefully turn themselves backwards and upside-down as you stare at them. And then there’s numbers, and math. And then there’s _French_.

Each of your instructors has a different method: kindness, persuasion, impatience, humiliation. When none of it works, they settle on brute repetition—

_(Again! Again! Again!)_

\--but nothing can roll away the boulder blocking the doorway of your mind. 

__________________

Age nine. Despite your complete failure as a scholar, you’re awarded a small role in _Roxana_ at the Bolshoi Kammeny Theatre. You play a red squirrel in the forest scene, for which they dress you in a preposterous get-up of russet velvet with a curly brown ostrich plume tail and a headdress with tall pointed ears. You feel you might die, but of which emotion? Fright, or embarrassment?

A woman stands backstage, watching you. Tall, spare to the point of gauntness, clad all in soot-black, she’s obviously a villainess straight out of Grimm. She comes and stands right next to you, and her proximity chills you to the marrow of your bones. But then you’re pulled against her side. You look up at her, expecting sharp teeth, but no. Her lanky arm draped across your shoulders feels strangely reassuring.

 _A_ _début_ _is always difficult, mal’chik,_ she tells you. _Your nerves will always suffer a bit before each appearance, but never again as badly as this one time. Do your best, then put it behind you—that’s my advice._

 _Who is she?_ you ask Monsieur later.

 _Madame Glebova? She’s a terrible old witch,_ he tells you. _She eats Academy pupils like_ zakuski. _Never cross her, or she’ll give you the wrong cue—I’ve seen it happen scores of times!_

He has never lied to you before. Joked, yes; exaggerated, yes. But never lied.

__________________

When the decrepit old Bolshoi Kammeny is closed down, Madame comes to work for the Mariinsky. She takes an office of her own in the Academy, much to Ivanov’s disgruntlement. He remarks sourly that you seem to be found standing in _her_ doorway as often these days as in _his_. It’s not that you do it more. What vexes him is that you do it at all.

Many years later, you’ll admit it to her: _I wanted to see if you were Baba Yaga._

 _And what did you find, mal’chik?_ she’ll laugh.

You find that she’s neither terrible nor old nor a witch. Though brisk of speech and slow to smile, her silver chatelaine brooch (scissors, needle case, fob watch, notepad and pen) rests against a surprisingly tender heart. You learn that she has a son in distant Australia and a daughter who serves as a governess in England. And despite the fact that she’s a widow, she never, ever wears black except in the theatre—and only on performance nights.

 _We who work behind the scenes have a sort of uniform that makes us invisible to the audience,_ she explains. _We don’t want to distract them from the dream they’ve come to see—or from the dancers who bring it to life._

When she is not managing the Mariinsky – a task involving piles of ledgers, stacks of receipts, and the occasional weeping ballerina – Madame lets you come and sit by her desk. She feels certain you’ll learn to read if given space, quiet, and time away from the clamor of the dormitory. She also feels you need to learn the ways of a gentleman.

_WHAT did you just say?!_

Startled, you look up from the puddle of spilled ink that has made your homework even more hopeless than before. Madame stares at you, frozen, incredulous.

 _V-voi vittu?_ You’re not even sure what it means, but Papa always said it when things went wrong.

Silence for a skin-crawling eternity. Then the corner of Madame’s mouth twitches—upward, not downward. She lays down her pen. _That’s quite a colorful phrase. What others do you know? Out with them!_

 _Perkele_. It pops right out like a summoned imp. Madame’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t object, so you dip again into infant memories of hearth and home.

 _Jumulauta. Voi saatana._ _Vittu tätä paskaa_ _._

Now Madame’s face is the color of sour cream. _Maybe she doesn’t like Finnish,_ you think. Would something Russian be better? Hastily, you add, _Idi v’zhopu—_ and she explodes, _My god, enough! You’ll blister the wallpaper!_ But she’s laughing, so you laugh too.

 _Never, ever let anyone hear you say those things aloud,_ she warns you. _Instead, try ‘oh, well’ or ‘what a pity’._

_I’m sorry, Madame._

She opens a drawer in search of a handkerchief to soak up your ink. _You say that altogether too much, my lad. Better lump that phrase in with the curses._

__________________

Eleven.

One day, Monsieur calls you to his office and makes you stand before him as he sits in his chair. With the side of his hand, he traces a level line from the top of your head to his. You’re as tall standing as he is seated.

 _Come, my child, don’t you want to be a_ danseur noble, _like Gerdt?_ _You’re more talented than Legat and Vrebalov put together, but they’re both taller!_ He clucks his tongue. _You can’t let them get the better of you. Will you grow, or must I stretch you on a rack?_

You drop your head, nursing a bashful smile. It’s nice when Monsieur ribs you; he doesn’t do it as much these days.

 _Are you eating enough of what gets dished up around here? I know it’s not haute cuisine, but it’s good, rib-sticking food._ _I worry that you’re not receiving the full benefit of it._ Monsieur tilts his head, studying you for a moment, then tousles your hair. _What do you say? Shall we have Dr. Semyonov look at you?_

Dr. Semyonov does exactly that— and shrugs. _Filipp is still growing,_ he tells Monsieur. _Some boys don’t attain their full height until twenty. I once had a patient who grew an entire foot in one year! His parents were furious about all the new clothes they had to buy. No sooner buttoned up than outgrown!_

 _I thought Finns were taller than this,_ says Monsieur. 

_Not all, Ivanov. Perhaps his parents were Lapps._ Dr. Semyonov lifts your chin with two fingers. _Look at this lovely child. Healthy and strong— and marvelously gifted. Why not be happy with that?_

Silent, Monsieur mulls it over.

That night in the refectory, just when you think you’re finished eating, an additional bowl is placed before you. It’s full of mashed turnips with plenty of melted butter running in golden rivulets: your favorite, no one else’s.

 _On Ivanov’s orders,_ says the attendant. _For your health._

Other tidbits follow: extra chicken meat in your soup, an additional glass of milk. But Monsieur’s dietary scheme only carries you so far. By age thirteen, you’ve grown to two _arshin_ , four _vershok_ tall; you’ll eventually make seven _vershok_ , but only just. Not tall enough for the _danseur noble_ Monsieur wishes for, yet you leap high and balance perfectly, and you – not Vrebalov – can already do _entrechats-sixes._

Monsieur stops calling you _Midiya_ and begins to call you _Feya_ , sprite. You’re beginning to fly on your own.

__________________

Thirteen.

Your strength grows apace; your style begins to gel. More and more, you’re earmarked for lyrical and allegorical roles— _the romantic stuff,_ says Fedya, who prefers to play the jester. 

_Feodor lacks gravitas,_ says Mme. Vazem the fifth-year dance mistress. _But Filipp has enough of that for them both._ Accordingly, she casts you and Fedya as Oberon and Puck for a classroom vignette taken from _Son v letnyuyu noch'_. Monsieur praises it, and for the first time, you feel as though you’ve unlocked the secret to sunshine.

Fedya, on the other hand, disdains such largesse. He’s already planning his retirement. 

An Imperial Ballet contract only lasts as long as a dancer’s joints – fifteen, maybe twenty years – so one must think ahead. Fedya, who can draw anything, wants to design stage sets and costumes. His parents – both of them former dancers of renown – approve of his ambition and have already secured him a drawing instructor.

 _I can still work for the Ballet without having to perform,_ he states. _That way, I’ll always like my job. How about you, Fíli? What would you like to do?_

You don’t know. You do what you’re told. They tell you to dance, so you dance. If they told you to fetch water, you’d fetch water. _Wanting_ has nothing to do with it. _Wanting_ is not your strong suit.

Still, at night, you lie awake thinking. Not wanting. Just thinking.

Someday you’ll have a room, made to fit only one. You’ll have a dark red wool blanket for your narrow bed and a little table with an oil lamp and a tin box to hold a loaf of rye bread all for you. In the corner will stand a little tile stove, never cold for long. There will be pegs on the walls to hang clothes on and a trunk for hiding special treasures. Most crucial, the door will lock with a key, which you’ll wear around your neck— shutting yourself in and others out.

You tell yourself it’s because you crave quiet that you don’t want people in your room. But if you’re quite honest, you’ll admit that you _don’t want people,_ full stop.

__________________

Academy girls may as well be Grand Duchesses, for all they’re shielded from the world’s gaze. They go nowhere unchaperoned; even within school walls, they’re monitored as though the slightest bump might shatter them. Of course, these delicate butterflies are in for quite the shock when they grow up and join the Ballet proper. They’ll find themselves pawed and ogled like whores in a bordello, and not a governess in sight to save them. 

For now, no one dares touch them except their teachers and their partners. So it is that one day you find yourself standing opposite a scrawny, birdlike girl with frizzy ash-brown hair. Ostensibly a classmate; in reality, a stranger.

Madame Vazem lifts both hands as though conducting an orchestra. _Ladies, curtsey; gentlemen, bow,_ she warbles.

Blushing, you and the girl both obey.

From the other end of the practice room, Monsieur Johansson calls out, _Now shake hands with your partner and introduce yourselves._

The girl’s hand is dry and fine-boned with a surprisingly firm grip. You blush again, mortified at your own damp, nervous grasp. _My name is Fili,_ you choke.

 _Kseniya Borisovna Bursztyna,_ she trills. It’s more of a song than an introduction. You realize too late that you ought to have given her your full name. Less than five minutes, and you’ve already blundered.

A sharp clap from Johansson. _Let us first take a simple walk. Beginning_ tendu devant, _walk forward with your partner on the beat, one turn around the room and back to your starting positions, please._

At least here, you don’t falter. Neither does she.

 _Now_ pas marché, says Vazem. _With grace and dignity, and three, and four…_

 _…and lunch is coming, and kasha, and soup, and one, and two…_ whispers Kseniya through grin-gritted teeth.

You’re surprised, even shocked, even _scandalized_ that she talks to you. None of the other girls would dare risk such an impropriety. Later you’ll learn it’s because she’s a ‘day girl’, with a home and a family and everything. Rules meant for boarders and orphans simply don’t apply to her.

 _I have three brothers,_ she’ll say. _If I can talk to them without batting an eye, why shouldn’t I talk to you?_

 _Gentlemen, stand back behind your partners, at the ready. Be prepared to shift your weight to the rear leg. Ladies, fifth position_ en pointe _for two beats, then fall backwards. Just fall! Trust your partner—_

 _I trust you,_ hisses Kseniya. _I think._

_—to catch you at the waist—_

_You’d better,_ comes the warning, _sotto voce._

_\--one hand above each hip, and stand you back up straight. Places! Ready? Then up, and two, and BACK—_

Kseniya doesn’t so much as blink; regal as a _tsaritsa_ , she falls into your waiting hands.

 _Good, Fíli,_ says Johansson, passing behind you.

An angry squeak from off to your left. Fedya’s partner – a dark-haired girl whose sweet flower-face apparently camouflages thorns – has swiveled minutely in his inexact grip.

 _That’s Matty,_ Kseniya informs you. _She must have everything perfect. Her father’s Kschessinsky, you know._

 _Really?_ You stare at the dark-haired girl with new interest. 

_Really. But don’t moon over her,_ Kseniya cautions you. _Remember, you’re partnering ME!_

To the ear, Kseniya is peppery and irreverent, striving with her whispers to make you break. To the eye, she’s gawky, all too-sharp angles and too-long lines— but that’s only when she’s at rest. In motion, Kseniya transforms into a sylph straight out of a fairy tale. All that is awkward about her becomes elegant and fluid. She glories in her own strength and her ability to control it absolutely. All this feeds into the exuberance of her dance. You will always liken partnering her to holding a beating heart in your two hands.

As for Matty, she seems to have resigned herself to Fedya, as they gossip together, she performs a frolicky little _pas de chat._ She and Kseniya pretend at rivalry, but theirs is the truest of bonds. The main difference between them is that Matty throws foot-stamping tantrums when she’s frustrated. Sometimes she even cries!

 _Good thing Johannson paired her with your chum over there,_ states Kseniya. _He’s just silly enough to keep her from getting too serious. And I’m just silly enough to do you the same favor._

Every day, you learn to support and guide Kseniya’s movements on the floor. You’re not allowed to lift her yet – that will come in a year or two – but together, you practice arabesques, attitudes, pirouettes and port de bras. All the while, your teachers appraise your suitability for one another, as if waiting to draw up a marriage contract. But you know that Kseniya will be something more to you than a partner or a wife.

Having a little sister is a mystifying journey. You’ve been a brother, but so briefly, you’ve forgotten how it’s done. And then, Veikko was a boy like yourself; had he lived, you’d understand your responsibilities better. What if you slip up, fumble, make a mistake?

 _Do your worst,_ says Kseniya. _Remember, Filochka, I’m a tomboy with three older brothers. I’ve taken my share of knocks._

Trust pays off. In time, you move together as if you were one organism, perfectly balanced and coordinated. When you do finally lift her, all the Monsieurs and Madames in your world are delighted with the result. So is Kseniya. 

_You’re my earth, and I’m your sky_ , she tells you. _If you lift me up, I promise never to fall on you._

__________________

Fifteen.

Girls of the Academy may be sheltered, but its boys are not. The school and theatre are their home, their playground, their kingdom. And they are _boys_. How can they not be safe?

You are the one selected by God to test that question.

 _Come,_ the pale-eyed man said, _I need your help with something._ And because he was a familiar face backstage, and because you wanted to be useful, and because he reminded you just the smallest bit of Papa, it didn’t occur to you that what the man needed help with was to hurt someone.

For all your life afterwards, you’re grateful that of the many parts of the Mariinsky you’re contractually obligated to set foot in, the boiler room is not one of them. You will never, ever see it again—and why would you have to? It’s seared so deeply into your mind you can name every brick, every crack, every cobweb. And the fiendish heat on your skin, and the mechanical din in your ear, and the stink of the pale-eyed man’s body, and the taste of blood and semen— you would never need to experience those again to say, _Yes, I’m sure that’s what happened to me._

It was Monsieur who stumbled upon what he calls ‘the scene’. Madame angrily corrects him: _Scenes are what you find onstage, Lev Ivanovich. This was a crime._ And she’s right, but he never calls it that, and he also never calls you _Midiya_ or _Feya_ or _my child_ ever again. From the moment you wake up in the infirmary, you’re _Filipp Akselovich_ , a disavowed person.

Semyonov brings in a specialist to reset your lower jaw, left dislocated and dangling. The procedure involves one doctor standing behind you to hold your head steady while the other jams his gauze-wrapped thumbs into your mouth, one on each side, to maneuver the jaw back into its socket.

The first attempt fails; you become hysterical at having your mouth touched and must be given laudanum. The second attempt goes forward without your participation or awareness. You awaken a second time to find your head mummified in cloth bands to keep your jaw in place, and Madame by your bedside, tenderly stroking your hand.

 _You fought hard,_ she assures you, but the words slide out of meaning; suddenly they’ve become like letters on the page, twisted and elusive.

People heal from pain and terror, you’ve heard. They forget the bad things – and yes, some good things, too; it’s the price of one’s ticket to get on with life. You, you don’t heal, and you don’t forget; you let the memory of the boiler room harden within you like mortar, like steel—but you _do_ get on with life. They have to grant you that.

You lose a lot of things, but nothing smaller or stranger than this: you can’t remember the moment that you were rescued. Did anyone, in fact, rescue you at all?

__________________

Three weeks pass— two for your injuries, by order of Semyonov, one for your bruises to fade. Madame thinks it will make your return to the dormitory less awkward, but your tragedy has already been thoroughly circulated from bed to bed in the dark of night. You’ve become a walking ghost story.

Everyone falls silent when you enter. Only Fedya, loyal Fedya, leaps up at your approach. Taking your unbandaged wrist, he leads you to your bed, casting glares left and right. But even though your fellow pupils stare and whisper, to be surrounded by so many people comforts you. 

The dream of your tiny room is dead. You never, ever want to sleep by yourself again.

__________________

Kseniya and Matty make you a pretty card out of lace scraps and clippings from old issues of _La Mode Francaise_. The paste is still a bit moist when Madame delivers it into your hands.

Matty only thinks you’ve been laid low with some ague or another, but Kseniya knows something more. Her brothers (themselves Academy alumni) have heard things. They don’t tell her much – who would dream of airing such a topic with a girl present, let alone your kid sister? – but at the very least, they’ve explained that this isn’t just another case of St. Petersburg typhoid.

It wouldn’t matter to Kseniya, at any rate. On your first day back in the practice room, she darts forward and presses you to her scrawny breast in front of all, as if to declare for the record, _Whatever Filipp has, it’s not catching._

__________________

You are nowhere near the courtroom when the pale-eyed man is condemned to prison. But Monsieur is.

 _Why did he go?_ you ask Madame. Even though his eyes and voice are cold lately, you feel so much safer when he’s near. You’d cling to his coat if he’d let you; you’d do anything if he’d call you Midiya and ruffle your hair again… Instead it’s Madame’s feet at which you sit. She even lets you hold on to the hem of her skirt, if it makes you feel better. 

_Dearest boy,_ she begins, so softly and musically it’s easy to mistake her words for a fairy tale. _Monsieur Ivanov is giving witness testimony before the court. What that means is that he is telling the judge what he caught Plezhkov doing to you._

 _Who is Plezhkov?_ you ask in all seriousness. 

This is how you learn the pale-eyed man’s name.

 _He’ll never feel the sun on his face again,_ Madame continues. _He’ll dig for lead until he drops dead, have no fear of that!_ In her fury and loathing towards Plezhkov, she momentarily looks exactly like the witch you worried she might be that first time. It’s fleeting, though; she almost immediately realizes her effect upon you.

 _Everything’s going to be all right, my lad,_ she tells you. _Monsieur Ivanov will tell them everything._

By the time the clock chimes three, you’re firm in the belief that every single person in St. Petersburg – from the Tsar right down to the least chimney-sweep – knows all about you and what happened in the boiler room. A maelstrom of shame drags you down into its swirling heart, but you mustn’t let it show; you must not shirk in class or you will fall behind again; you must not lose the tempo or you will fall behind again; you must not fall behind again…

Looking at you from the practice room doorway, Monsieur answers the leap of your heart with a measured look, and only that. _Monsieur Ivanov will tell them everything,_ Madame said. He did his duty; he owes you nothing else.

Only later, hot face pressed to cool pillowcase, do you entertain a different line of thinking.

 _What is the_ everything _Monsieur saw?_

 _What is the_ everything _Monsieur could tell?_

_If he saw everything, why does he say nothing?_

_If he had anything to tell, why will he not talk to you?_

These questions will never be answered. 

You might as well try to close your eyes. Children have to sleep sometimes, and the ogres have already done their worst.

__________________

Nineteen.

Perrformance night, _La Forêt Enchantée_.

The Academy uniform you wear to the reception is slightly too small on purpose. _It will set off your physique to best advantage,_ Tyuchev the headmaster remarks in knowing tones. When you glance at him in puzzlement, he quickly throws in, _It looks smart! You want to look smart, don’t you?_

It pinches. It squeezes. You can’t lift your arms. _Of course you can’t,_ Tyuchev says. _Just stand straight in first position and keep your hands folded behind. If people look at you, bow your head; if they talk to you, nod and smile._ His voice lowers. _If they put their hands on you, don’t flinch. Just pretend it’s Johansson, correcting your posture._

 _Why would they put their hands on me?_ you ask.

His look is half-sympathy, half-exasperation. _They’ll want to make sure you're not a marionette._

After ten minutes in the reception, you wish you were just that. At least you’d have strings to dangle from, since it’s clear you’re meant to be helpless in another’s grasp.

Tyuchev wasn’t lying. They _do_ put their hands on you, these glittering people— the men all medals and gold galloon, the women swagged in satin and pearls. They gather around, touch your shoulders, your arms; one lady coquettishly takes your hands and holds them up and out, posing you as it pleases her. A man in a sash drooping with medals reaches out abruptly and lifts a lock of your hair off of your forehead. Laughing, another actually brushes his gloved palm over your lower back as if to measure its curve.

Only one person talks to you. 

As he crosses the room, your heart does a _saut de chat_ within your breast. He’s so beautiful, so beautiful, he cannot possibly mean to speak to you. But he does – his voice deeper than you expected, like the low string on a cello bowed so gently the horsehair barely brushes it – and all _your_ strings are cut at once.

His gaze touches the planes of your face like a lover’s fingers, but it is nothing like the others’ touch; he leaves you uninvaded. 

_You… the Spirit of the Forest…_ he gasps. _You were… you ARE_ …

 _Fíli,_ you whisper.

__________________

Some nights, even now, you wrench yourself awake with a muffled cry. Because it is still dark, you believe for a moment that your flight has failed. Then Kíli – more than three-quarters asleep, but somehow still knowing – murmurs something indecipherable in language but clear in its love, and you relax.

Hell, some say, is a pit of flame. 

But heaven, heaven is this.


End file.
